The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (2 page)

“Still holding the fort, I see,” Qwilleran said. “Has anyone heard from Bev?”

“No. After the turmoil she experienced here, I believe she was glad to wash her hands of our fair city.”

The former manager had written to Qwilleran, however, thanking him profusely for his farewell gift, little knowing it was something he had been trying to unload.

She had written, “It was so wonderful of you to arrange for me to have
The Whiteness of White
. It hangs in my apartment, where it is admired by everyone. You may be interested to know I have found a small job in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that could develop into something big.”

Qwilleran nodded. From what he knew of that city it had the right climate for an esoteric intaglio. He had won it in a raffle at the art center, simply because he was the only one who bought a chance. He bought several, using the alias of Ronald Frobnitz. As the winner he was trying to dispose of it discreetly without offending the artist who had donated it. Luckily Beverly Forfar was leaving Pickax forever, and she was happy to acquire an artwork valued at a thousand dollars.

In a postscript to her letter she had written, “If you are in touch with Professor Frobnitz in Japan, please thank him for his generosity. I'm sorry I didn't meet him while he was in Pickax. On the telephone he sounded positively charming.”

Qwilleran asked Thornton, “Any good prospects for Beverly's successor?”

“They've interviewed a few applicants but can't seem to make a decision.”

“You're doing too good a job, Thorn. Why hire a manager when good old Thorn will do the work free?”

“Don't think that hasn't crossed my mind! After September thirtieth, I quit! Meanwhile we're setting up the craft fair. Are you coming to the opening? I'll have a few of my own things on exhibit.”

“Are you doing something creative in tombstones?” Qwilleran asked lightly.

Thornton was a retired stonecutter who had studied art history at one time. “You can kid all you like,” he retorted, “but I felt the need for a manual hobby. I bought a lathe, and now I'm doing woodturning in my basement.”

“That I've got to see!” Qwilleran said.

“Then come to the craft fair,” his friend said. “Bring money.”

When Qwilleran walked up the lane to the apple barn, he was approaching from the east. In its heyday it had been a drive-through barn with huge doors east and west, large enough to admit a horse-drawn wagon loaded with apples. Now the huge openings had been filled in and equipped with human-size doors. On the East Side there were handsome double doors flanked by glass panels. These were the front doors, opening into the foyer, although they were on the back of the building. The back door was, of course, on the front, opening into the kitchen. (This kind of anomaly was common in Moose County, where Pickax was referred to as Paradox.) Twice the Pickax voters had vetoed a proposal to change the names of streets. “Old East Street” was west of “New West Street,” and there was confusion about “North Street East” and “South Street West.” Only strangers were befuddled, however, and befuddling strangers was a local pastime.

As Qwilleran approached the double doors, two Siamese cats watched from the sidelights, standing on their hindlegs with their forepaws on the low windowsill. Entering the foyer he had to wade through weaving bodies and waving tails, circling him, doubling back, rubbing his ankles, and getting under his feet—all the while yowling in the operatic voices of Siamese. The tumultuous welcome would have been flattering if Qwilleran had not consulted his watch. It was feeding time at the zoo!

“What have you guys been doing this afternoon?” he asked as he prepared their dinner. “Anything worthwhile? Solve any world problems? Who won the fifty-yard dash?” The more you talk to cats, the smarter they become, he believed.

The long, lean, lithe muscular one was Kao K'o Kung, familiarly known as Koko. His female companion was Yum Yum—small, dainty, shy, although she could shriek like an ambulance siren when she wanted something and wanted it immediately. Both had pale fawn-colored fur and seal brown masks, ears and tails. Her eyes were blue tinged with violet, and their appealing kittenish gaze could break hearts. Koko's deeper blue eyes had a depth that suggested secret intelligence and untold mysteries.

They were indoor cats, but the barn interior was as big as all outdoors to a small creature weighing ten pounds or less. The space, a hundred feet in diameter, was open to the roof. A ramp spiraled up the walls and connected the balconies on three levels. In the center stood a huge white fireplace cube with white stacks soaring to the cupola, and it divided the main floor into functional areas: dining, lounging, foyer, and library. The kitchen was under a balcony, half hidden by an L-shaped snack bar.

In the daytime a flood of light came through triangles and rhomboids of glass. Pale colors prevailed—in the bleached timbers, upholstered furniture, and Moroccan rugs. After dark, when a single switch activated indirect lights and artfully placed spotlights, the effect was nothing less than enchanting.

Qwilleran's favorite haunt was the library area. One wall of the fireplace cube was covered with bookshelves, and the shelves were filled with secondhand classics purchased from a local bookseller. A library table held the telephone, answering machine, and writing materials. In a capacious lounge chair with an ottoman, Qwilleran liked to read aloud to the Siamese or draft his column on a legal pad with a soft lead pencil.

On the last day of August, before going out to dinner, he read to the cats from a book selected by Koko. He was the official bibliocat. He prowled the bookshelves and liked to curl up between the biographies and the nineteenth-century English fiction. At reading time it was his privilege to select the title, although Qwilleran had the power of veto. They had been reading Greek drama. Koko could sense which book was which, and he repeatedly sniffed
The Frogs
by Aristophanes.

“Okay, we'll do it once more,” Qwilleran said, “but this is the last time!” Both cats liked the froggy chorus that he dramatized so colorfully:
brekekekex koax koax
. Yum Yum's eyes grew wide, and a rumble came from Koko's chest.

 

“Those cats are just like little kids,” Qwilleran said at dinner that night. “When I was three years old, I wanted to hear
Jack and the Beanstalk
over and over again. It was in desperation that my mother taught me to read so young.”

He was dining with the chief woman in his life, a charming companion of his own age, whose gentle voice, soft smile, and agreeable disposition camouflaged a will as strong as Yum Yum's. She was Polly Duncan, director of the public library. She always wore something special for their dates, and this time it was a green silk dress with a necklace of long slivers of silver alternating with beads of green jade.

“You look lovely!” he said. He had learned not to say, “You look lovely tonight.” That would imply that she usually looked unlovely. Polly was sensitive about the niceties of speech.

Pleased, she said, “Thank you, dear. And you're looking very handsome!”

He always wore a coat and tie, well coordinated, when having dinner with Polly. It was a compliment they paid each other.

They had a reservation at Onoosh's in downtown Pickax, a cafe with the exotic murals, lamps, brasses, and aromas of the Mediterranean rim. Ethnic foods were finally being accepted 400 miles north of everywhere, although it had been a slow process. Seated at the brass-topped tables were foodists with adventurous palates, vacationers from out of town, and students from Moose County Community College, who were eligible for a discount.

For starters Polly had a dry sherry and Qwilleran ordered Squunk water on the rocks with a twist, a local mineral water.

“What's the latest gossip at the library?” he asked. It was a center of information in more ways than one. “Has the Pickax grapevine blown a gasket over Mr. Delacamp?”

“No, no!” she corrected him with excitement. “The latest news is about Amanda! Haven't you heard?”

“I heard the rumor in July, while you were in Canada, but she denied it.”

“She changed her mind several times after that, but I think she was building up suspense. There's nothing naive about Amanda!”

“So what's the latest?” he asked impatiently. As a journalist he always felt uncomfortable if he didn't know the latest.

“Well! Today was the deadline, and she picked up her petition at city hall at nine a.m. Eight hours later, she returned it with the required number of signatures—five percent of registered voters! She stood in front of Toodle's Market and Lanspeak's and created quite a stir, as you can well imagine.”

“That's our Amanda!” Qwilleran gloated.

There was only one illustrious Amanda in Pickax. As owner of the design studio on Main Street she had decorated the homes of well-known families for forty years. She had served on the city council for twenty years—always outspoken and sometimes cantankerous. The locals loved her for her fearless individualism, and that included her eccentric dress and grooming. Now she was daring to challenge the incumbent mayor in the November election—a politician who had held office for five terms, simply because his mother was a Goodwinter.

That was the big name in Pickax. The four Goodwinter brothers had founded the city in 1850.

But the mayor's name was Gregory Blythe. His challenger was Amanda Goodwinter!

Qwilleran said, “I predict she'll win by a landslide.”

A bright young woman in an embroidered vest served them baba ghanouj and spanokopetes, and he said, “I wish my mother could see me now—eating spinach and eggplant. And liking it!” Then he asked, “What's the latest on Old Campo?”

“How can you be so derisive?” Polly rebuked him. “The jealousy among our male population is ludicrous! A few members of my library board are on his guest list, and they say he's a grand gentleman with polished manners and great charisma!”

“I hear he always has a girl Friday who travels with him and happens to be young, sexy, and related by blood.” He said this with an ounce of sarcasm.

Polly replied in all seriousness, “He's training family members to take over the business when he retires. . . . Or so I'm told,” she added. “But the big news is that Carol has asked me to pour at his celebrated Tuesday Tea! Those opals you gave me were ordered by Carol from a Chicago jeweler. That was Delacamp's firm, and so I'm suddenly in the inner circle.”

“Just what does he do when he's in town?”

“Well, first he gives an exclusive tea for potential customers. Then families with heirloom jewelry to sell invite him to their homes, and those who wish to buy vintage jewelry from his private collection make appointments to meet him in his hotel suite.”

Qwilleran considered the situation briefly and then asked, “If he's so discriminating, how did he react to the old hotel with its broken-down elevators and wretched food?”

“He had the good taste not to criticize or make fun of it. . . . I don't mind telling you, Qwill: I'm having stage fright about pouring tea for him.”

“Nonsense, Polly. You're always in control, and now that you've had your surgery, you're healthier and livelier and more admirable than ever.”

The young waitress serving the entrees grinned to see “an older couple” holding hands across the table.

“Don't snicker,” Qwilleran told her. “It's an old Mediterranean custom.”

For a few moments they contemplated the presentation of food on the plate—stuffed grape leaves for her, curried lamb for him—and the subtlety of the flavors. Then he asked, “What are you wearing to the reception Saturday night?”

“My white dinner dress and the opals. Are you wearing your kilt with your dinner jacket?”

“I think it would be appropriate.”

The grand opening of the refurbished hotel would be a black-tie event at three hundred dollars a ticket, proceeds going to Moose County's Literacy Council. There would be champagne, music, and a preview of the renovated facility.

Qwilleran said, “I'm getting a preview of the preview. Fran Brodie is sneaking me in.”

“It was a stroke of genius to rename the hotel, considering its grim reputation in the past.”

“The new sign is going up Thursday.”

Conversation lapsed into trivia:

The theatre club was opening its season with Night Must Fall.

The art center had been unable to replace Beverly Forfar.

Celia Robinson had married Pat O'Dell and had moved into his big house on Pleasant Street, leaving the carriage-house apartment vacant.

When finally they left the restaurant, Qwilleran asked, “Would you like to stop at the barn and see my new calendar?”

“For just a minute. I have to go home and feed the cats.”

It was twilight when they drove into the barnyard. A faint, dusky blue light seemed to bathe the world. It was the breathless moment after sunset and before the stars appeared, when all is silent . . . waiting.

“Magical,” Polly said.

“The French have a word for it: l'heure bleue.”